


Burning Through

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return from Cape Verde, Neal's leg is recovering well but something else is very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Through

**Author's Note:**

> I really have nothing to say for this one, other than that it's random sick-fic encouraged by the usual suspects, especially [](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/)**angelita26**.

Neal closed his door and leaned against it for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths to get his heart rate back to normal and steady the tiny bit of spin in the room around him. It was ridiculous, how tired he felt just from working all day then walking up the flights of stairs to his apartment, and he didn't know how to explain it to himself. He wanted to blame the weeks he'd spent on Cape Verde, out of the bustle of city life and far away from fourth floor apartments, but it was difficult to sell himself on that idea when he'd passed so many hours jogging and swimming or just walking around in town.

He couldn't even blame the gunshot. His leg was healing well, just a little bit sore at the end of the day sometimes, and his last doctor's appointment had confirmed that there was no infection at all, no reason for his leg to be dragging his energy levels down. Neal had even gone so far as to ask the doctor about the way he was feeling, and after a couple of tests Neal had been left with reassurance that there wasn't any kind of tropical infectious disease causing his fatigue. _Try to get some more sleep_ , the doctor had said. _Make sure you sleep in a dark room._

A dark room wasn't something Neal could easily accomplish, given the combination of the expanse of windows in his apartment and the city lights they let in, but Neal tried turning down his lights in the evening and bought himself a sleep mask. The mask was made from black silk, lightly padded, and it made the darkness behind his eyelids much deeper than before. Neal made a point to get considerably more sleep than his customary four or five hours, but the sleep didn't seem to change anything.

Neal did his best to act as energetic as always, but both Peter and Mozzie had noticed enough to ask him if he was okay. Neal had brushed it off and said that of course he was okay because what else could he do? Complain about being tired? That wasn't going to happen. Neal felt a niggling unease in his gut, sometimes it even felt like a physical pain tugging at his insides, but he told himself that he just needed time to adjust.

With a sigh, Neal pushed away from the door and walked over to open his fridge. He wasn't very hungry, and stretching out on the sofa to read sounded a lot more appealing than dinner, but he'd skipped dinner the night before and ended up feeling lightheaded in the morning. Clearly he needed to eat more, so Neal heated up some leftover Italian takeout and poured a glass of red wine to go with it. Maybe that was all he needed--hearty food and medicinal wine. Neal ate his dinner then read until it was late enough to go to bed, and he told himself that he would feel better in the morning.

~~~

The next day, Neal sat at his desk in the bullpen and thought about trying to get another appointment with his doctor. His leg was still fine, the minor soreness kept in check by the occasional Advil, but instead of feeling better he was just feeling worse. Food and sleep hadn't given him any more energy; he'd felt lightheaded again when he got out of bed, and his stomach ached in a way that made him think that eating the leftovers had probably been inadvisable.

"Hey, Neal?"

Neal looked up from the evidence he'd been pretending to examine to see Peter walking his way. "What's going on?"

"Agent Ruiz asked us to come down and look at something his team is working on. I think he wants your expertise."

"Oh!" Neal couldn't help smiling; no matter how much he didn't personally like Ruiz, it was always flattering to hear that his knowledge was worth something to people other than the White Collar division. "Sure, of course."

Peter looked over to where one of the probies had called for him. "I'll meet you at the elevators."

Neal nodded, and he was glad that Peter had turned around by the time he stood up because he felt himself sway and had to lean his hip hard against the edge of his desk and drop his chin to his chest until the room settled around him. Neal took in a shaky breath and shook off the dizziness then shook again with a sudden chill. He was definitely going to have to call his doctor, but first there was work to do.

Neal made his way out to the elevators then stood leaning against the wall with a hand at his waist, trying to discretely rub at the ache in his middle until Peter finally got free of the probie. Peter tilted his head when he first spotted Neal, and his eyebrows drew closer and closer together as he walked over to where Neal stood.

"What?" Neal asked.

"What's going on with you? You look--" Peter frowned and shook his head. "Awful."

Neal affected a hurt expression. "And I made a special effort today and everything." The words came out sounding less blithe than he had intended; speaking seemed to require significantly more breath and effort than usual.

"Right." Peter stepped in close, and Neal was penned in with the wall behind him. "I'm serious. You don't look well. Do you have a fever."

"No, I--" Neal tried to duck away from Peter's hand as it came closer to his face, but there was nowhere for him to go. "Would you stop?"

Peter only looked more concerned. "You're not hot, but you feel clammy, and I've never seen you this pale. You're still telling me you feel okay?"

Neal shrugged one shoulder and sighed. "Honestly, I was thinking about calling my doctor. I've been feeling kind of worn out." And it sounded just about as pathetic as Neal had imagined.

"How about we just go find a doctor now. Urgent care, I think."

Neal thought about arguing, but he just didn't have the energy. His stomach was hurting worse, too, and Neal swallowed hard against a surge of nausea. "Fine. I just need to visit the restroom first."

Peter looked even unhappier at Neal's response, but he stepped aside to give Neal room to pass. "The fact that you agreed so easily makes me think we should head to the ER instead."

"No, please." Neal swallowed back a bad taste in his throat then pushed away from the wall. The hallway swam around Neal, and he wanted to put a hand against the wall to steady himself, but he didn't think he had time to delay unless he wanted to humiliate himself in public. Everything had taken on a gray blur, but Neal focused on moving forward until suddenly the floor tilted and he landed hard on his knees. He managed to get his hands out fast enough to avoid smashing his face into the floor, and over the sound of his own heart beat and his gasping breaths he heard Peter calling his name, his voice strangely slow, warped.

Neal wanted to say something, wanted to ask Peter to give him just a minute when his stomach churned again. Neal tried to push up to his feet, but his arms were shaking, barely holding him up from the ground and before he could ask for time or help a twist of pain hit him and he squeezed his eyes shut as he hung his head and threw up. Peter was saying something again, louder now, and Neal's humiliation was pushed aside by horror when he opened his eyes and saw blood. Everything was gray and swaying around him, everything other than the dark red pool of blood on the floor under his face.

Neal felt a hand on him, heard Peter's voice, but the pain in his stomach was screaming inside of him and he heaved again, tasting the blood this time. Neal gasped, tried to find the breath to ask for help, but then his arms gave out and the world collapsed into darkness.

~~~

"Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal felt a hand on his shoulder and twitched away from it, but that woke up pain in his stomach and his head, neither of which appreciated the rash movement. Neal opened his eyes just far enough to see a woman in scrubs looming over him. "What?"

"Mr. Caffrey, my name is Dr. Renaldo, and you're in the Bellevue emergency room. I need to ask you a few questions. Can you try to stay awake for me?" At Neal's slight nod, she continued, "Do you remember what happened earlier?"

Neal blinked, his whole head feeling vague and confused, then he noticed the taste in his mouth. "Blood," he whispered. "I was sick."

"Has that happened to you before? Recently?" She proceeded to ask Neal several more questions about his stomach and bathroom habits, each one more disgusting and alarming than the last, but all Neal could do was shake his head.

"My stomach hurt a little bit sometimes, but not--nothing much." Neal hesitated, then added. "I was tired, just tired."

The doctor asked more questions, and Neal struggled to keep his eyes open as he denied smoking, admitted to having a drink or two most days and talked about the over-the-counter pills he'd been taking for his leg. None of it made sense, and Neal finally asked, "What is it? Am I--what's wrong with me?"

"Well, I suspect that you have a peptic ulcer that's been bleeding for a little while, and now it's become very serious. The next step is to do an endoscopy, which involved sending a tiny camera down your throat so that we can see the damage and possibly stop the bleeding without having to get you into surgery. Will you consent to the procedure?"

Neal winced then nodded. "Is Peter here?"

"If that's the FBI agent who followed the ambulance, he should be out in the waiting room filling out your paperwork. Would you like to see him?"

"Please." Neal let his eyes close, and he drifted until he felt a hand on his arm.

"Neal?"

Neal opened his eyes to see Peter standing over him. Peter was missing his jacket, and there was a smear of blood on his shirt; Neal stared at that irregular splotch of blood until Peter squeezed his arm.

"Hey, why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I wasn't, not really." And there had been too much going on, too much disruption for Neal to complain about feeling tired.

"Well, they're going to fix you up, and we can talk more later. I'll stay here until they kick me out, okay?"

"Thanks." Neal closed his eyes and let himself drift in the chilly darkness. Peter's hand on his arm was the one warm spot that anchored him to consciousness, and when that connection slipped away so did everything else.

~~~

A day and a half later, Neal left the hospital feeling better than he had for a few days before everything had gone to hell. He had prescriptions for an antibiotic and an antacid, and he wasn't allowed to drink or eat anything even vaguely interesting for the foreseeable future. Peter drove him home, and despite the news droning away on the radio an uncomfortable silence lay between them. Peter kept glancing over at Neal, frowning, and finally Neal reached over and turned off the news.

"Would you watch the traffic? I don't want to end up back in the hospital so soon."

Peter sighed and squeezed his hands tight on the steering wheel. "I can't get over the fact that I had you in the office working when you were bleeding internally. I keep going over it in my mind, thinking that I should have known, should have done something earlier because I did know you didn't look well."

"It's not your fault."

"No, I guess not. But then I start thinking that you should have told me how you were feeling."

Neal rubbed at the small ache that remained in his midsection. "I didn't _know_."

"No, but you knew something was wrong. You authorized the doctor to talk to me, remember? You told her you'd been unusually tired for several days. And dizzy!"

"Just a few times." Neal sighed. "Look, with everything that's gone on recently--Kramer, Cape Verde, coming back here, you being reassigned and just finally getting back to White Collar, everything--how could I complain about being tired?"

Peter rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. "I don't know, Neal. I guess you say, 'Hey, Peter, I don't feel well so I'd like to take the day off to go see a doctor.' You're the man with the silver tongue, and you can't come up with that?"

Neal didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

After a quiet moment, Peter sighed and reached over to squeeze Neal's shoulder. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to chew you out over this, you just scared the hell out of me."

"You didn't like my Exorcist impression?"

"I didn't like your impression of somebody who was dying. You didn't see yourself."

Neal closed his eyes and saw Peter sprawled on the floor, poisoned, barely alive; Mozzie in the hospital, unconscious and critical. "I guess I didn't." Neal cleared his throat. "For what it's worth, I would have gotten checked out sooner if I had known it was serious."

"Good. That's good." Peter pulled up to the curb outside of June's mansion. "You have off work for the next few days, but why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow evening? I can pick you up on my way home, and El will cook something you can eat."

June had promised to have her cook send up meals, and Mozzie would no doubt be around, but a casual evening at the Burke house sounded better than Neal wanted to admit. "That sounds good thank you. Tell Elizabeth I'll bring some of the wine I'm not allowed to drink."

"Assuming Mozzie has left you any?"

"Of course." Neal opened his door then turned back to look at Peter. "Thanks for--" _Caring_ , Neal thought, but instead he said, "--the ride."

"Any time." Peter nodded, his eyes solemn, and in that moment Neal felt like he was understood.

As Peter put the car back into drive, Neal walked up the front steps, and June met him at the door with an embrace that smelled of very expensive perfume and helped to push away the miasma of the hospital. Neal didn't have any way of knowing if the ulcer was caused by anything he did or if it was the inevitable result of bacteria, so he couldn't know if he would have ended up sick had he and Mozzie stayed in their island retreat. He did know, however, that he wouldn't have had Peter by his side or June welcoming him home.

As much as Neal missed the kind of freedom he had without the anklet and the radius, he couldn't regret returning to this very different island. He couldn't regret coming home.


End file.
